


Scarred

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Mary, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John moved back into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock knew he was going to have to be careful that John never found out. That John never saw them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarred

> __ "Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
>  Admit impediments. Love is not love  
>  Which alters when it alteration finds,  
>  Or bends with the remover to remove:  
>  O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,  
>  That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;  
>  It is the star to every wandering bark,  
>  Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
>  Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
>  Within his bending sickle's compass come;  
>  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
>  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
>     If this be error and upon me proved,  
>     I never writ, nor no man ever loved." -William Shakespeare's Sonnet 116

When John moved back into 221B Baker Street, leaving Mary for all her treachery, Sherlock knew he was going to have to be careful that John never found out. That John never saw them.

The love Sherlock Holmes carried for John Watson was all consuming and unshakable. It had left physical marks on him - the circular scar Mary’s bullet had made on his abdomen for one, which, in a sickly poetic way, matched the one on John’s shoulder. Sherlock had seen that one once, in their first year of living together. Sherlock had walked in on John after he’d gotten out of the shower with a towel around his waist. Sherlock had immediately felt his cheeks heat up. Here was a naked, dripping wet John Watson right in front of him. God, he was perfect. His shoulders were broad and his frame was strong. He certainly couldn’t be called a bodybuilder, but he definitely had muscles to brag of. His stomach had a slight layer of pudge that softened the chiseled warrior, made him somehow human. Real. Tangible.

Except Sherlock was never to touch him.

John’s hand clasped over the starburst of scar on his left shoulder (self-conscious, Sherlock deduced). “Ah, sorry. I’ll just be out in a mo’,” John apologized, cinching his towel tighter around his hips.

“Not a problem, John. It’s not an emergency,” Sherlock said, closing the door, keeping a nonchalant smile on his face till the door was shut. Then he exhaled, flushing. He memorized the image he’d just seen for later...inspection.

Fifteen minutes later, John came in the living room, fully dressed and ready to leave for his date with whichever boring girl it was this week. “I’ll be back about 11, Sherlock,” John said, pulling on his coat.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair. “John, you shouldn't be embarrassed of it, you know.”

John froze. “Embarrassed of what?”

“Your scar, the one you got in Afghanistan.”

“Oh, right.” John’s gaze flicked to the floor. “Well, it’s not...it’s pretty ugly. It’s fine-”

“No, John. It’s not fine. That scar represents your bravery as a soldier. You went to war and were injured for your pains. It shows your courage and your selflessness, the hardship you were strong enough to survive. You should be proud of it.”

The tips of John’s ears turned pink, like they did when he and Sherlock were running from danger. “I never really thought of it like that,” he mumbled shyly.

“Besides,” said Sherlock, hopping up and approaching him. “Had you not received that scar, you would have never been invalided home and therefore never would have met me.”  _ I would still be alone and friendless and most probably dead _ , Sherlock added to himself.

John slowly smiled. “Yeah...g’night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John,” Sherlock said, watching him head down the stairs.

And now, Sherlock had a shot wound scar just like his. But John knew about that one. He didn't know about the others. The streaks criss-crossing his back, left from the whipping of the Serbian torturers. Moriarty’s network, which Sherlock had worked so hard to dismantle. So John would be safe. For John. Everything for John. Always.

And John could never know. Sherlock knew he’d have to be careful.

But one day, after John had been living back home for two months, after he thought John had left for work, Sherlock made an idiot mistake: he left his bedroom door open.

He’d been undressing for a shower. He’d just pulled off his pajama shirt when-

“ _ Sherlock... _ ”

Sherlock whirled around, attempting to hide them. But it was too late. John was standing in the doorway of his room, his eyes blown open.

Sherlock had been distracted, thinking about the latest case. He’d let his defenses slip for one moment, and now... “Why aren’t you at work?” Sherlock snapped, blood rising to his cheeks.

“I’d left my mobile in the bathroom. Where did you get  _ those _ ?” John exclaimed.

Sherlock looked away. “It’s no concern of yours,” he grumbled.

“Sherlock, I'm your best friend. I'm a bloody doctor! Now let me see them.” John strode over to him, militant stride, and Sherlock had no choice but to turn as John’s hands were guiding him.

“Oh my God...did someone  _ beat _ you?” John gasped, his eyes skimming over the marred scape of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock sighed. “It was in Serbia. When I was destroying Moriarty’s network. Luckily Piecroft stepped in before the torturers had done too much damage.”

“‘ _ Too _ much damage’? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you’re covered in scarring-”

“I am aware. I was doing my level best to keep it from you.”

“Why?” John said. “You should've told me everything the moment you got back - why didn't you?”

“Because, John, you had been grieving for me for two years. You were getting married, starting a whole new life. You didn't need my troubles weighing on your mind.”

“Oh,  _ Sherlock _ .” And Sherlock could barely believe it, but John’s arms were wrapping around his torso, hugging him tightly, as if to protect him from the slings and arrows of the cruel, cruel world; but he was also gentle, as if Sherlock was made of delicate blown glass, liable to shatter at the slightest upset.

Sherlock closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth of John’s skin through his many (too many) layers of clothing on his naked back. He should be cataloguing this feeling, the sensation of John,  _ touching _ him, affectionately touching him, protectively touching him,  _ wanting _ to touch him, into his Mind Palace. But for the moment, all Sherlock could do was  _ feel _ , take in John’s arms around him, John’s cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, John’s warm breath on his bare skin, John’s hair brushing the back of his neck, John’s heartbeat thumping against his body, John, John,  _ John _ ...

Then John’s breathing changed, thinking, putting together the pieces and Sherlock realized hopelessly that he  _ knew _ . Oh, he’d let John get too close, too close...

“Sherlock...” His name on John’s lips wasn’t any louder than a whisper, and the tenderness of his voice made Sherlock want to sob. “Please tell this wasn’t because of me.”

Sherlock couldn’t answer him.

“Oh my God,” John gasped, but thankfully he wasn’t pulling away; if anything, he was drawing Sherlock  _ closer _ \- “Oh my God. Sherlock,  _ why _ ?”

Sherlock daringly slid his hand up, covering the one on his waist. This may be the last time he touched John Watson. He was pathetic, he was disgusting, but he needed it. “You know why,” he murmured, his baritone rumbling low in his chest.

Sherlock didn’t think it was possible to be any physically closer to John, but somehow, John’s grip on him grew even more firm, as if John thought he could  _ absorb _ Sherlock into his skin, his transport a fortress to shield Sherlock from the world, and oh, how Sherlock wished he could. John buried his face in Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock shivered. One of John’s hands slid upward, covering Sherlock’s heart, bringing Sherlock’s hand on top of it with it, and Sherlock’s other arm covered the one John had on his hips, their limbs and every other part of them aligned.

Then, Sherlock felt John’s head move, and his lips fleetingly pressed against the streak across his left shoulder blade in what was undoubtedly a kiss.

Sherlock gasped, a tiny whimper catching the back of his throat. John kissed his back again, another scar, and Sherlock knew it wasn’t a fluke.

“Lay down for me,” John entreated shakily, his hand on Sherlock’s heart clenching slightly. “On your front. Please.”

Sherlock swallowed and regretfully left the circle of John’s arms and climbed into his bed, spreading himself out upon his sheets, exposed and trembling.

The mattress dipped as John sat beside him. As he leaned over him, Sherlock noticed that John had shed his coat and scarf. Then John’s warm dry lips were back on his skin, and Sherlock’s endless train of thought shut down again.

John reverently kissed every scar on his back. Sherlock’s nerves rippled at every touch of his mouth, every soft brush of John’s palms, and he fought the urge to shiver, to moan, to burble John’s name with all the tenderness in the world, to utter those three deadly words that had been tied to the concept of John Watson in Sherlock’s mind since that famous day in the lab at Bart’s.

“Oh, Sherlock,” whispered John, pressing his lips to a scar dipping down into the small of Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock really did shiver. “Christ...I had no idea...I’m so  _ sorry _ -”

“No, John, it’s not your fault,” Sherlock said quickly. “I was stopping Moriarty’s network, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time-”

“But you would have never been there if not for me,” John choked, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, still touching him so tenderly. “And I was so _mean_ to you when you came back-...and just after you'd-...Sherlock, no one’s ever-...you-”

“John, please, this is exactly why I was keeping them from you, I knew you’d blame yourself.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John’s voice cracked. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? God, I put you through so much - if I had known-”

“John, I didn’t mind, really, I didn’t-”

“Sherlock...”

And John was turning him over on to his side, holding him again. Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John’s neck, and John was stroking his curls. Sherlock was shaking.

“Shh, Sherlock, please, it’s alright, I’ve got you, it’s okay,  _ shhhh _ ...”

Sherlock sunk into his friend’s warmth, breathing in his scent, shivering pleasantly under John’s healing touch. “I love you,” he found himself whispering.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. It’s alright. I’m here...”

They lay there a while longer, John calmingly stroking Sherlock’s skin, making it sing, as if the sharp tongues of the whips had never lashed his skin.

After a few minutes, Sherlock looked up at John. “You’ll be late for work.”

“Fuck ‘em. I already have someone to take care of.”

“John...” Sherlock whispered again, because he simply didn’t know what else to say. Although there was so much he longed to say.  _ Hold me, heal me, touch me, kiss me, take me, love me, stay with me forever and ever, oh John... _

Sherlock, having been kept up for the past two nights by the case, felt himself being lulled to sleep by John’s warmth and smell and secure embrace.

“Go to sleep, love,” Sherlock vaguely heard John saying as he was drifting off. “I’ll be here.”

Sherlock finally, finally found rest in John’s arms.


End file.
